


Nudes

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: Bullets [11]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Intergluteal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Boris is naked. Valery is terribly embarrassed.





	Nudes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenatria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenatria/gifts).



> This story basically comes from a chat on [Tumblr](https://johnlockismyreligion.tumblr.com/post/186545235528/so-im-surprised-someone-hasnt-suggested-this-as), from the encouragement of Elenatria (thanks ♥) and from the fact that Stellan Skarsgard has said that he goes around his house naked.
> 
> A fic that's lighter than what I usually write in this fandom. It's not AU, but there's no mention of death and tragedy.

Valery is nervous.

Well, more than usual.

He is so tense that he jumps to any unusual noise.

That's no good, tomorrow he has to talk at the conference, but he can't do if he’s so antsy: Boris must find a way to distract and make him relax, Valery can't always be so rigid and buttoned.

He doesn't know precisely when or why he took on the commitment to take care of Valery, but he carries it on with his usual scrupulousness. Perhaps even more than that.

He would gladly trade his Bureau with that of "person in charge of Valery Legasov's happiness".

"Valery, let's go for a walk,"

Valery is used to challenge, when he’s ordered around (bad habit, he knows), especially if he has been distracted from work, but he has long learned to recognize the different nuances of Boris's voice, when he can challenge him and when it's useless.

And now he knows that Boris will take him for a walk, even if he should carry him bridal style (which wouldn’t be unpleasant, but terribly embarrassing).

Besides, he wasn't really concentrating on the work.

"Why?" He asks anyway (bad habits die hard).

"Because we can frown at the decadence of the Western world and judge it severely."

"I think I'll just watch, frowning is your specialty," Valery chuckles, touching Boris' eyebrow.

Good God, he must be more exhausted than he thinks.

As if it were a contest of inappropriate touching, Boris takes his arm, nothing less, and drags him out of the hotel.

The judgment on the Western world remains negative, but the Viennese cakes pass the severe inspection of Boris. As for Valery, he would convert a pastry chef to Soviet socialism only to have him come to work in Moscow, near his office.

When they return to the hotel, Valery's mood has definitely improved, and Boris congratulates himself: good work, comrade.

"Thanks Boris," Valery murmurs, rubbing his neck, embarrassed, "I hadn't realized I was so tense."

Boris puts a hand on his shoulder: "Whatever you need, or if you just want to talk, the door to my room is always open for you, you don't even have to knock."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"I’m serious."

"Well, then maybe I'll come to your room to have a chat or a drink together, later?"

"I'll be ready."

Once in his room, Valery realizes that he needs immediately something from Boris, because he is a walking mess and he forgot to pack the comb and the deodorant. Surely they are on the bathroom shelf in his apartment in Moscow, if Sasha hasn’t found and is playing with them.

Boris said he can ask him if he needs something, and surely he can't go on without deodorant, so Valery does as he was told: he opens the door to Boris's room without knocking, to ask him if he can borrow his deodorant, but he freezes on the threshold, his hand convulsively tight around the door handle and his tongue glued to the palate.

Boris is sitting on the bed, his legs stretched out, reading some papers, and he is naked.

Nude.

No, he's having hallucinations. His mind has reached its breaking point and his attraction for Boris has fueled this vision, which doesn’t exist and is not real, so now Valery will close his eyes and when he opens them again...

Boris is still naked, and is leafing through the pages of the document, unperturbed.

Valery gapes at him. He's not drooling, is he? He ardently hopes not, it would be a little too revealing.

"Valery, can you close the door, please? The corridor is cold and you're letting out all the warmth from the heating."

Valery's mind offers him two options: the first one is to retreat to his room, throw himself on the bed and pretend that he hasn't seen anything (or, more realistically, to masturbate himself into oblivion), the second one is to step into Boris’ room, close the door behind him and see what happens.

No, it's ridiculous, the second option doesn’t exist. Who had this indecorous and inadmissible idea?

Apparently his body, which ignored the scandalized cries of his mind and decided for him, entering the room and locking the door, so no one can accidentally step on them.

Wouldn't it be more prudent to barricade it by putting the wardrobe in front of it? Maybe yes.

"Thanks Valery," replies Boris calmly, and then returns to read the report.

"You are n-naked. Why are you naked?" Valery exhales, finding his voice again.

"So my clothes don't get creased."

"There are pajamas, Boris!" Valery screams in a high pitched, hysterical voice. Why isn’t Boris embarrassed? His quiescent cock is resting on a thigh, right in front of Valery, who he can't take his eyes off him, why doesn’t he feel the urge to cover himself? In his position Valery would have already died of embarrassment. Dammit, he's dying of embarrassment and he’s wearing jacket and tie.

"It's hot," replies Boris, placing the document on the bedside table, "the wastage that these Westerners make of heating is shocking."

"The heating. The heating is shocking. Not you?" Valery wheezes.

Boris gets up and walks towards him. At this point Valery should reopen the door and run for the hills screaming, but Boris's assertive walk is one of his (many, too many) weaknesses, his mind is now derailed like a off tracks train, only capable of noticing his broad shoulders, the swaying of his hips, and how well proportioned his body is. Everywhere.

How does one stop looking at a naked Boris Shcherbina? Why is there no instruction manual for it?

"It's just my body."

"Your naked body," Valery reiterates.

"Yes, so what?"

"And don't you think it's inappropriate?"

Valery would like to scream: _"If you are naked, how can I stop having indecent thoughts about you? How can I prevent my body from reacting?”_

Not that it makes much difference: it will soon be painfully obvious.

"Not for me," Boris says, "I have a very relaxed relationship with my body."

"Oh, you don’t say?" Valery blurts. It’s a good sign that he still retains a bit of sarcasm, meaning his brain is not completely rotten.

"You should learn to relax about your body, Valery."

At this moment there is no part of Valery that is relaxed, really none.

"Humans are born naked," Boris goes on, "this is what we authentically are, once you remove the clothes and the masks."

"Don't drag philosophy in," Valery mutters, "I'm already confused enough."

Searching for an appropriate spot to look, his eyes linger on the scar of a cut that Boris has on his side, close to his liver, and his fingers rest there. The limits of personal boundaries have been already overcome when he set foot in that room.

"What’s this?"

"A robbery attempt, about ten years ago."

"Oh Boris..." Valery shudders with horror: the liver is a delicate area, there are important arteries, and if...

"It was just a scratch, and you had to see how the robber was, after that I beat the living shit out of him."

Valery snorts a laugh, then lets his fingers slip away.

"I have another one, do you want to see it?"

Without knowing why, Valery nods and Boris turns, revealing the round scar of a bullet on his left shoulder blade.

"Was it during the war?" Valery asks, touching it.

"Yes, I was lucky because the shot was exploded a long way off, so the bullet had lost strength and it didn't penetrate deeply."

 _"Yes, we were lucky,"_ Valery thinks: if that knife had penetrated deeper or that bullet was shot from a close range, they wouldn't have met. Instead it happened, and perhaps this opportunity shouldn’t be wasted due to his shyness, after all Boris is perfectly at ease, naked in his presence: it has to mean something. And yes, it's a madness, it's unexpected, but Valery can't say he never thought about it. He's not a liar.

He caresses his shoulders and gently pulls with his hand; Boris understands and turns again.

Valery rests his forehead against his chest, closing his eyes: Boris has less hair than him, but it’s more bristly, perhaps because it’s silver; it’s a peculiar sensation, but not unpleasant. He opens his lips and inhales deeply: Boris hasn’t taken a shower recently, so he doesn’t smell of soap or cologne, he simply smells of... Boris. It is a smell that has no equivalent.

"Valera..." Boris pants, and his voice is more hoarse than usual.

Valery opens his eyes again: Boris' former quiescent penis is growing.

In a fit of madness and desire, Valery cups him in the palm of his hand: it’s warm and throbbing. "Is it because of me?" he whispers, and his voice carries an incredulous note.

Boris chuckles, halfway between amused and exasperated: "Well, I'm certainly not thinking of Gorbachev. As I told you, when we are naked, we show our most authentic reactions."

"Oh..." Valery hints a shy caress, moving his hand up and down, and Boris's body is shaken by a strong shiver.

Boris put a hand under his chin to make him raise his face: Valery is blushing beautifully, but he doesn't seem anymore like he wants to throw himself out of the window to run away, and he doesn't move when Boris bends his head and catches his lips in a kiss. The hand around his cock goes slack and Valery's body leans heavily against his as Boris caresses his lips with his tongue and deepens the kiss.

The wool of Valery's jacket is prickly and unpleasant against his skin, and hides that body that Boris wants to discover and explore.

"Valera," he gasps on his lips, "I want to look at you, I want to see you naked."

Valery shies away, uncomfortable.

"But…"

"Don't you want me to see your most true reactions?" Boris asks, "yet you saw me." He knows he's being a little unfair, but sometimes he has to force the hand with him.

Valery shakes his head, resting his hands on Boris’ chest again. "No, it’s not that, but... I'm not beautiful to look at."

It's Boris's turn to take a step away, hands on his hips, fully on display. "Why, do you think I am, being almost seventy?"

Boris's body shows unequivocally the signs of time: his skin show age spots and is wrinkled, especially around the joints, gravity is doing its job, his hair is gray, and he is not toned, but nevertheless Valery finds him very attractive. Now he is salivating copiously.

Why?

Oh, of course: he underestimated the importance of the emotional component. Perhaps Boris means this when he talks about authentic reactions.

Valery takes off his glasses, resting them on the desk with a small smile of apology: "I only have these," then he drops his jacket to the floor, ignoring Boris's reproachful look, and hooks a thumb in the suspenders, but Boris stops him.

"I want to do it."

A new wave of blush climbs on Valery's face, but he lets him do it, lets Boris slowly undress him, taking off one garment after another, as if he were unwrapping a present, and when even Valery’s pants fell to the ground, Boris moves him in front of the mirror and then positions himself behind him.

Valery instinctively looks away, eyes on the carpet, but Boris bends over to talk to his ear: "Don't be ashamed, there's nothing wrong, it's natural, it's your body."

While he is talking, he caresses Valery’s shoulders and back, sliding his hands down to his buttocks, holding them in his hands, before bringing them back to his shoulders, as he moves his lips to Valery’s neck.

"But I don't have scars to show you, I'm afraid my life has been much less adventurous than yours," Valery mutters.

"Hm, I like your body, you have freckles everywhere, you make me want to kiss them one by one."

He runs his hands under Valery’s armpits and caresses his wiry, copper hair, then presses his thumbs on his nipples; Valery arches his back, and a wanton moan leaves his mouth.

"Yes, look you at Valera, look how your body reacts to me," Boris mutters, continuing to caress his nipples in small circular motions.

"Oh... B-Borja..."

Valery has goose bumps all over the body and shows an impressive erection, the tip shiny and wet. Shyness has disappeared, and now Valery wants to look at everything: at Boris' fiery gaze, looking at him in the reflection of the mirror, so intense and full of desire that it risks to make him come on the spot, at Boris’ hands slowly sliding down his abdomen and finally closing around his waiting cock, the tip appearing and disappearing in Boris's fist.

The jolt of pleasure that runs through Valery's body is so intense that his knees go weak, and he screams as if he’s in pain.

Boris stops, biting his lips to regain self-control.

"We can lie down on the bed."

"No, no, let's stay here, I want to see." Valery extends his arms behind him and clings to Boris's hips, digging his nails into the soft flesh there.

"Yes, like that Valera, lean on me."

Boris kisses his temple and then looks back into his eyes in the reflection of the mirror; his cock is pressing painfully against Valery's buttocks, the glans red and swollen, demanding attention, but he forces himself to resist, he wants to take care of him first, he wants Valery to see himself coming into Boris’ arms.

Valery looks at his groin; Boris runs two fingers along his erection up to the frenulum and cups Valery's testicles in the other hand. The mixed sensations are so intense that for a moment Valery closes his eyes, letting his head fall on Boris's shoulder as he moans and moans.

"Do you like it?" Boris' sinful voice asks, right in his ear, and Valery nods frantically.

"Like that?" Boris teases Valery's cock with a finger, a light touch that he knows it’s too light to satiate him, but he wants Valery to ask him, wants him naked, nude, body and soul.

Valery shakes his head, moistens his dry lips and then gives voice to his most hidden desires, finally free and without shame.

"No, I want more. Your fist around me, like before, and then... oh yes... keep touching my balls."

Boris rolls them slowly on the palm of his hand, and Valery's thighs tremble: he is extremely sensitive down there, an information Boris intends to exploit for the future. His other hand closes gently around his cock, now leaking profusely, but Valery shakes his head: "Tighter… harder, Borja."

Valery pushes himself into Boris's tight fist, frantic, no longer in control of his body, chasing the impending orgasm.

"Look at you," Boris repeats, and Valery looks up at his own face in ecstasy. He had never done it, too shy, too embarrassed, but now Boris has shown him another truth: this is natural, this is authentic, this is beautiful.

A particularly vicious twist of Boris’ wrist, and Valery comes forcefully, as it hadn’t happened in years, he comes and comes, so long that he’s left dazed; Boris accompanies his every spurt with his hand, and lets him go only when Valery sobs, clearly overstimulated.

Valery regains his breath slowly, and only then he feels Boris’ wet erection, pressed against his lower back: he has been so focused on himself and his pleasure that he hasn’t noticed it.

"Borja, tell me what you want," he murmurs, feeling guilty for having neglected him.

It's Boris's turn to grab him by the hips, licking his lips.

"Stay where you are."

Boris bends his knees slightly, and pushes his cock between Valery's buttocks, rocking his hips; the tip of his cock grazes Valery’s hole, making him start in surprise.

"Yes?" Boris growls, licking the shell of his ear.

Valery has never gone so far in his fantasies, but now the idea is so exciting that if he were younger, he would have another erection. He turns his head and kisses Boris, then blows "yes" on his lips.

"Next time, then."

"Not now? If you want, we can..." he brings his hands over Boris', but the older man shakes his head, just rocking his hips faster, "I wouldn't last, I'm too close."

"Oh…"

"Yes, and it's your fault."

"Happy to be guilty." In the mirror, Valery's eyes shine with mischief. "But you were wrong on one thing."

Boris grunts, too busy enjoying the wet heat between Valery's butt cheeks to articulate a question.

Valery raises an arm and strokes his head, "You are beautiful, this is beautiful."

"Yes… hm… tighten your legs," Boris pants, continuing to rock. His glans rubs against Valery's testicles with each push.

Valery looks at Boris’ face in the mirror, at his gaping, almost smiling mouth, at his eyes, usually so sharp, now hazed with pleasure: Boris is enjoying every moment of it, and moans vocally as he reaches orgasm.

 _"It was me, it was my body that made him come,"_ Valery thinks, and it’s a thought so powerful that it almost makes him dizzy.

They have to lie down on the bed after Boris comes back from his high. They collapse on it, to tell truth, exhausted but sated, and lie on their side, still embraced, the roundness and the softness of their bodies pressed together, without shame. Boris was right, there is nothing more natural than this.

Valery intertwines their legs with a contented sigh, and Boris smiles, pushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, then kisses it, leaving his lips there, until they both slip into sleep.


End file.
